


your eyes aren't rivers there to weep

by riduredo



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Brief Mention of Violence, Dementia, Forgetting, Hospice, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Unreliable narrator?, kind of, the relentlessness of time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28969503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riduredo/pseuds/riduredo
Summary: Everything that lives must die. Everything that remembers must forget.-“Cuore mio,” the man responds, “why do we wake at such an hour?” His voice is a touch smoother, though it always has been, for all the years they have known one another. Yusuf runs a hand through his Nicolò’s thinning hair with faintly trembling fingers.“Do you know where we are, hayati?”-
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 5
Kudos: 72





	your eyes aren't rivers there to weep

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, everyone! This is my first fic that I've published here. I hope to write a lot more for this fandom and specifically for these two. 
> 
> CW for this fic: Nicky and Joe are briefly unsure of who the other is, and despite a brief moment of awareness at the very beginning, do not know where they are. They are implied to have lost their immortality and gotten old, residing in a nursing home. If this content upsets you, please proceed with caution.
> 
> Title is from "Marbles" by The Amazing Devil. For the full experience, I definitely recommend listening to it while reading this.

“Nicolò,” he sighs. “My Nicolò. My light.” 

The man in his arms turns, smiles gently at Yusuf. His eyes are still stunning even after a millennium and more, though they are now tucked into beds of wrinkles and carry the fog of age. Yusuf knows he fares not much better; the skin wrapped around his fingers is papery, and the voice he uses to whisper to his beloved is thick with gravel. 

“ _Cuore mio,_ ” the man responds, “why do we wake at such an hour?” His voice is a touch smoother, though it always has been, for all the years they have known one another. Yusuf runs a hand through his Nicolò’s thinning hair with faintly trembling fingers.

“Do you know where we are, _hayati_?” Yusuf murmurs to him. He sees the fog shift, though he does not quite know whether it thickens or dissipates from sudden fear for just a moment. Nicolò’s breathing picks up, rattling his chest. His head swings wildly. Yusuf winces as he hears the bones in his neck faintly pop. 

“ _Donde?_ ” He says, and the age of his voice has momentarily vanished. He is twenty-something again, desperate to keep his lover for just a little longer before they must leave once again. “Where have we gone? Did they find us? Where have we been taken?” The Ligurian is thick and languid on his tongue. Yusuf is suddenly unsure of not only the answers, but the questions themselves. He tries to pull the Ligurian out from the deep crevices of his mind, and manages to tug it free in time to console the man currently wrestling himself from… whose bed roll is this? The blankets are thick, warm. As the man beside him finally frees himself of their hold, he finds himself doing the same. His hands feel unsteady as he reaches blindly beside him for his blade. His fingers find empty air instead of the cold ground he was expecting, and his eyes finally adjust to the dim, warm light of the tent. Tent? No, they’re in a room. Why would they be in a room? 

Had they ever been in a _room_ together before? Had it ever been safe enough to sneak away to somewhere so secure? 

Nicolò’s search for answers comes up fruitless, though he too has apparently noticed their surroundings. They are both standing now, facing each other from opposite sides of the bed. Except… this is not his Nicolò. He knows this is Nicolò; he would not dare to hold another man such as he just had been. And yet… 

And yet, the old man in front of him holds no place in his mind. Yusuf cannot place him anywhere--his eyes belong to his Nicolò, though there is a fog there that does not belong to his beloved. The man in front of him seems to be playing a similar game with himself, trying to figure out who Yusuf is. Yusuf is scared. He aches for his Nico.

“Who are you?” He tries his best to edge his voice with steel, but what comes out is an aged memory of what may have been threatening, a long time ago. The Arabic comes out without thought. His grasp on the Ligurian still seems to be there, but he has no reason to make this stranger feel more comfortable by using his native tongue. Hell, he doesn’t even know if this man speaks Ligurian. 

“I don’t understand,” the old man says. So he does speak Ligurian. Yusuf repeats himself, this time to be understood by the stranger. 

“Nicolò. I… I am Nicolò. Where is he? What have you done with my Yusuf?” 

Yusuf blinks, once, twice. He can now see beyond the fog in this old man’s eyes, and sees the ghost of his Nico there. His heart still races. He wants to tell him his name, console his beloved, figure out where they are. What happened to them. 

Instead, the cold chill of metal is pressed against his throat. 

In his haze, he had failed to notice the old man--Nicolò--he had failed to notice Nicolò come to his side of the room, grabbing a thin metal pole with a curved end. It does not look like any blade Yusuf had seen before, but he has no doubt that it is just as deadly in the man’s hands. They both breathe heavily, staring wildly into one another’s eyes with barely-there recognition.

“Where? Where is he? I must- I need to find him. Please, where has he gone? Where…” Nicolò’s voice is frantic as he loosens the grip on the pole by a fraction. Yusuf’s hands rest on the metal, struggling to keep his Ligurian present and unaccented. 

“ _Hayati… cuore mio,_ it’s me. It is Yusuf. Please, put this down. You are scaring me. It is me, it is Yusuf, _hayati._ ” Nicolò’s grip slackens completely, and the pole falls to the ground with a sharp noise. Neither of them notices, as they step closer, pressing their foreheads together. Nicolò seems to confirm Yusuf’s words the same way Yusuf had confirmed his, staring into the man’s eyes before finding, buried somewhere, his lover. His hands rest gently on Yusuf’s cheeks, and the other man mirrors him. Their breathing is still heavy and coming far too fast, but they have at least started breathing in time with one another again. 

“You have gotten old.” 

Nicolò’s Arabic is accented and mangled against his lips, but Yusuf still grins at him. 

“I think I am not the only one, unless you have always been this wrinkled.” Nicolò laughs, kisses him gently. Their lips are paper thin. Yusuf does not think about it. 

Somewhere, a sharp, blaring sound is playing, accompanied by the rushing sound of footsteps. There is a light that has appeared above the entrance to the room. Yusuf does not think about this, either. 

“Yusuf,” Nicolò breathes. Yusuf is made sharply aware of the pain present in his beloved’s voice. His hands fall from his cheeks down to his wrists. 

“Come, _hayati._ Come to bed. We will fix this later. You are weak. Come to bed.” Nicolò follows him to the raised bed, and lets himself be handled into place. Yusuf is dimly aware of the light and blaring sound disappearing as he lays down next to Nicolò. The footsteps stop near the entryway. He decides that his love is more important, and resolves to give whomever is snooping a piece of his mind after they have rested. His hand rests against the fluttering heartbeat of the man in front of him. He can feel the rasp of his breath as it struggles in and out of his chest. Yusuf aches to be closer, _closer,_ enough to share his steady breath and be rid of the pain rattling in his love’s chest. He settles for setting their foreheads together once again. 

“ _Cuore mio…_ I am tired. Please, can we rest? Let them find us. Let me hold you. We can fix this in the morning. Please, my love, let us sleep,” Nicolò says into the fractional space between them. Yusuf feels himself nodding. 

“Of course, my darling love. Of course, _hayati._ We will see each other in the morning.”

Nicolò’s eyes flutter shut, Yusuf’s following close behind.

They will fix this in the morning. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Woof, writing this made me sad. Feel free to yell at me on Twitter @riduredo.


End file.
